‘Especially my wedding. Trust me.’
‘Well, you’d have all of us. Lazzo could give you away. Oh — and I’ll help you choose the dress!’
For what could be more fun than dressing Kaz up as a bride? She could get married from Applegarth, and we might even have a marquee (provided enough uncluttered space could be found). Despite my initial reservations, I find myself feeling quite excited at the idea.
‘Hold on a minute, Ruth. We’re not quite there yet! But thanks for being — nice about it.’ Kaz wriggles off the table, and picks up her bag. ‘Gotta go. See you later.’
As Kaz’s car rattles off down the driveway, scattering chickens in its wake, I realise that for a whole five minutes or so I have managed not to think about Silas. But now reality kicks in with a thud, and I feel my spirits sink. Weddings — celebrations of any kind, come to that — are off-limits at the moment, and may be so for some time to come.
I fetch a bucket and start mixing pig feed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Despite the gloomy prognostications of the doctors, Silas continues to hold his own. He isn’t exactly better, but he’s no worse, and a note of optimism creeps into the household.
Poor Eric is worn out with his vigils, refusing to take a day off, and must have lost nearly a stone. He looks almost as ill as his brother; more so in a way, because there is an artificial glow to Silas’s skin which has nothing to do with his condition but which gives an appearance of health. No-one would confuse the two of them now; they don’t even look like brothers, never mind twins. The GP has given Eric pills to help him sleep, but I don’t believe he takes them, preferring to remain on permanent alert in case he’s needed at the hospital. His Ark plans remain rolled up in a drawer; he hasn’t touched them since Silas’s operation. And while I’m still pursuing a bit of research for him on the subject of birds (and believe me, if the mammals are complicated, the birds are many times more so), I haven’t liked to update him on my progress. The Ark, like so much else at Applegarth, is going to have to wait.
Meanwhile, I have had some news. A postcard has arrived for me at my parents’ address from Amos, and while there’s not a lot on it, it’s still news. Amos is apparently on a ship on his way home, together with a small Caribbean band he founded while in Barbados. He has had a “great time” and tells me that the trombone goes “amazingly well” with steel drums (I can’t imagine it, but where music’s concerned, Amos is usually right). He will be arriving back in England “soon”, and hopes “to meet up some time”.
The casual note of the postcard is not cheering. “Soon” isn’t nearly specific enough for me, and no-one wants to “meet up some time” with the man they love (or even the man they think they might love), but never mind. Amos is alive, and is not staying in Barbados for ever, and this has to be good news for me. Of course there is no return address, and since he hasn’t given me the ship’s name or company, I can’t contact him that way. But it would seem that some time in the not too distant future, I may be seeing Amos. I only hope it’s sooner rather than later, for whatever I may feel, the baby won’t delay its arrival just to accommodate its parents.
‘Is that the chap with the beard?’ asks my father, who has obviously read the postcard.
‘That’s the one,’ I tell him.
‘Hmm.’
‘What do you mean, hmm?’
‘Looked untrustworthy.’
‘Dad, just because he has a beard —’
‘Not just the beard.’
‘What, then?’
‘He had shifty eyes.’
I think of Amos’s lovely brown eyes (more lovely and more brown with absence, of course) and despair. It could just be that no-one’s good enough for his little girl, but I immediately dismiss the thought. It would be lovely if this were the case, but simply not Dad. He’s not the my little girl type. No. Beards and shifty eyes notwithstanding, he doesn’t approve of my condition, and therefore by association the person who put me in it. I just hope that Amos doesn’t rock up at my parents’ house only to find signs of the recent conflagration and no-one to enlighten him as to my whereabouts, for the reconstruction works are not going well, and the house is still in a pretty sorry state, although piles of bricks, some scaffolding and a cement mixer are all signs of hope for the future.
But of course, if Amos should experience a momentary fear that my parents and I have all perished in the blaze, he can always ask the neighbours. Now there’s an idea! I shall get my mother to leave a note with the people next door to the effect that if anyone comes looking for me, they should contact me at Applegarth. I am delighted with this idea, and plan to put it in motion forthwith.
Lazzo comes into the kitchen.
‘Nice postcard,’ he remarks.
‘Yes, isn’t it.’
‘Lots of sea.’
‘Yes. There is quite a bit.’ The postcard is in fact almost entirely sea, with one tiny island in the distance and what might be a palm tree.
‘Made the net,’ he continues, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and looking at them longingly (he’s not allowed to smoke in the house).
‘Net?’
‘For the chickens.’
‘For the — oh yes. Well done.’
‘See it?’
‘Yes please.’
Lazzo brings in a complicated construction consisting of a long wooden pole with what looks like a wire tent on the end.
‘There.’ He puts it down on the floor.
‘Goodness!’
Lazzo grins at me. ‘See it work?’
‘Oh — right. Yes of course.’
We go out into the garden, Lazzo wielding his net, and search for chickens. Typically, they all seem to be hiding, but at last he spies one behind the greenhouse, and sets off in surprisingly rapid pursuit. There is a lot of squawking and flapping, plus one or two choice expletives from Lazzo, and the chicken is brought back for my inspection. It looks ruffled and very cross, but otherwise in good shape.
‘Why, that’s great, Lazzo. Really ingenious. I just hope the pilgrims can run, because the chickens certainly can.’
‘Do it for them,’ says Lazzo, beaming (he loves praise, I suspect because it’s in pretty short supply at home).
‘You aren’t always here,’ I remind him.
‘Mobile.’
‘Oh, yes.
Lazzo has recently acquired a mobile, and is completely wedded to it. I’ve no idea whom he phones, and why, especially since he is a man of such very few words, but he spends a lot of time labouring over misspelt text messages, experimenting with ring tones and playing its various electronic games. The fact that there’s no reception here causes him much frustration. When I have had occasion to phone him on it from the landline, he seems unsure how to reply, and there’s usually a lot of huffing and puffing, peppered with little clicking noises, before I actually get him to hear what I have to say.
‘You mean you don’t mind us phoning you to come and catch chickens?’ I ask him.
‘S’right.’
‘Ok then, that’s what we’ll do. You can be chief chicken-catcher.’
Lazzo beams again, and while it occurs to me that perhaps I should have asked Mum first, since this is now her project, I’m sure she won’t mind. Running fast after chickens is not what my mother does best, and I think she’ll probably be delighted to have someone else do it for her.
Eric returns from the hospital earlier than usual to tell us that the doctors are planning to start reducing the dosage of some of Silas’s drugs and try taking him off the ventilator.
‘I’m not sure I want them to,’ he says. ‘In a way, I prefer not to know. As things are, there’s still hope. But if they take him off the drugs and he doesn’t regain consciousness, well, that’s it then, isn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily,’ says Mum. ‘It could take time, couldn’t it?’
‘I think if he’s going to get better, it’ll happen quite quickly.’
‘Is that what they said?’
‘More or less.’
‘When are they starting?’ I ask him.
‘Tonight, after his consultant’s been round. I’ll go in first thing tomorrow, of course.’
‘Do you want anyone with you?’ Mum asks him.
‘Would you come, Rosie?’
‘Of course.’
‘D’you mind keeping an eye on things here, Ruth? We’ll — we’ll keep in close touch.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. I’d be happy to.’
Following Eric’s news, the waiting seems to intensify for all of us, and once the routine evening jobs are done, none of us are unable to settle to anything. Mum tries to make a cake, but omits some vital ingredient and has to throw the whole thing away. Eric paces to and fro like a lost soul. Poor Kent, still on the periphery of the family, retires to his caravan “to give us space”. And I try to practise the violin, an activity which has become increasingly difficult of late because of the tiredness induced by my pregnancy. Only Dad is gainfully employed, bullying the builders who are trying to rebuild the house. Of course, I don’t know this for sure, but from the conversations he relays back to us, it sounds to me very much like bullying. The builders are either the laziest men on the face of the earth (Dad’s perception) or have the patience of saints (mine).
The following morning, Mum and Eric leave early for the hospital. I busy myself around the house, hindered by Mr. Darcy, who senses trouble and follows me round like a shadow, and by Blossom and her vacuum cleaner. After I’ve tripped over the flex for the third time, I finally lose patience.
‘Blossom, please, please would you look where you’re going with that thing? Someone’s going to do themselves an injury.’
‘Their look-out,’ Blossom says. She looks a bit pale even for Blossom, and I noticed that she didn’t have a biscuit with her coffee earlier on (always a bad sign).
‘Are you — are you all right, Blossom?’
‘Course.’ Blossom turns away, but not before I detect what look very like tears in her eyes.
‘Are you — worried about Silas?’
‘Might be.’ She sniffs and blows her nose on a tattered Kleenex.
‘He’ll be all right, you know, Blossom. I’m sure he will.’ I put a hand on her arm, realising that it’s the first time she and I have ever had any kind of physical contact.
‘Better be. The old bugger.’ There’s the ghost of a smile. ‘Taken flowers up to the Virgin,’ she confides. ‘Some nice early daffs. Said a prayer for him, too.’
‘Well, that was kind.’ I feel quite exultant, having finally found the soft side of Blossom, but realise it would be dangerous to push my luck any further. ‘Would you like another cup of coffee?’
‘Wouldn’t mind,’ says Blossom graciously. ‘Any biscuits?’
The morning drags. Every time the phone rings, I jump, but so far it’s been a man about a blocked drain, a wrong number, and Dad fretting about the right sort of bathroom tiles. Did Mum say blue patterned, or plain? He can’t remember. At the moment I can think of few things I care about less than bathroom tiles, so he gets pretty short shrift. I reflect that my father has ill-timing down to a fine art. At midday, we receive a brief bulletin with the news that Silas has been taken off the respirator and is breathing on his own, but is still unconscious. Is that good news or bad? No-one seems to know.
Kent and Kaz join me for lunch, but none of us is very hungry, and my half-hearted attempt at artichoke soup goes virtually untouched. A couple of pilgrims/chicken-lovers turn up asking for chickens, and after an unseemly scuffle involving half a dozen people and a great many chickens (Lazzo isn’t answering his mobile) we manage to capture five, plus, incidentally, the white duck. The duck is given a reprieve and the chickens set off in the back of a very posh Volvo, where they can be seen hurling themselves against the rear window in a flurry of feathers as they depart down the drive (the putative owners having forgotten to bring a receptacle). The minutes and the hours tick by.
At five thirty-four, the phone rings again. I leap to answer it, treading on Mr. Darcy’s tail and knocking over a lamp.
‘Oh, Ruth!’ Mum sounds beside herself.
‘Yes? What? What is it Mum? Is Silas all right?’
‘Oh Ruth.’ Mum is sobbing now.
‘Please, Mum! What’s happened?’
‘Silas. It’s Silas.’
‘Yes?’ Of course it’s Silas! Does anything or anybody else in the world matter at the moment?
‘He’s — Oh, Ruth! — he’s asking for his frog!’
‘His frog? What frog?’ For a moment, the significance of Mum’s news escapes me.
‘His frog. You know. The stuffed one. Oh, Ruth, isn’t it wonderful? Silas is asking for his frog!’
‘Yes. Yes of course.’ My fuddled brain struggles with images of Silas and frogs, and a myriad other questions. Then the significance of what she’s saying finally hits home. ‘You mean he’s conscious? He’s talking? He’s okay?’
‘Yes! That’s exactly what I mean. You can’t imagine what a relief it is —’ do you want to bet? — ‘and Eric is, well, Eric’s —’
‘Pleased?’
‘Not just pleased. He’s so relieved. I don’t think I realised how desperate he’s been until Silas spoke to him.’
‘Oh, Mum! That’s fantastic!’
‘Isn’t it? Of course, he’s got a long way to go still, but it really looks as though he’s on the mend at last.’
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I think we’ll stay just a bit longer, then we’ll come home. I believe Eric might actually sleep tonight.’ She pauses. ‘Ruth?’
‘Yes?’
‘What did we do with that frog?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Silas is being a terrible patient. He has been home just five days, and is driving us all up the wall.
‘It says in my book...’ are the words we are learning to dread, for Silas’s bible has something to say on every tiny symptom, and Silas would have us know everything it has to say.
I have to admit, I’m disappointed. I was looking forward to looking after Silas; a Silas who would depend on us for his care, a Silas who would be sweetly undemanding, a Silas who would — dare I say it — be grateful. I imagined him lying on the sofa in the sitting-room swathed in blankets, sipping sweet tea or delicious home-made soups, taking little walks at times convenient to the rest of us, getting better every day (of course) but doing it without causing any trouble.
Not so. Silas is very far from grateful. He is restless and bored, tapping his way round the house (he’s been persuaded to use a walking stick until he’s a bit steadier on his feet) interfering and generally making his presence felt. I know I’m not the only one to dread that tap-tapping, and the demands which accompany it, for the rest of the household too are becoming irritable and fractious.
‘What does he want now?’ Eric sounds exasperated at the imperious tinkle of the little bell Silas keeps by his bed. ‘I’ve only just been up to him. He’s had his breakfast, he’s got the newspaper and the telephone. I’ve re-filled his hot water bottle. What else can he possibly want?’
‘I’ll go,’ I tell him. ‘You stay here and finish your coffee.’
When I enter his room, Silas is sitting up in bed with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, consulting his book.
‘I think I’m getting a rash,’ he tells me. ‘It says here —’
‘Oh, Silas! Not that book again! Why don’t you put it aside for a bit and read something else? How about a nice cheery thriller?’
‘It says here,’ Silas continues as though I haven’t spoken, ‘that a penicillin allergy usually begins with a rash. I think I must be allergic to penicillin.’
‘You’ve been on penicillin for ages. Surely it would have shown up before now?’
‘Not necessarily. It says here —’
‘Let me have a look at you.’
Silas pulls up his pyjam
a top to reveal a pink, healthy chest (healthy, that is, if you ignore the large scar running across it).
‘It looks fine,’ I tell him.
‘It itches.’
‘You’re probably too hot. It’s awfully stuffy in here. Shall I open a window and let some fresh air in?’
‘Gracious, no!’ Silas looks shocked. ‘I might catch a chill.’
Even I know that catching chills from open windows is more old wives’ tale than fact, and I suggest to Silas that he looks up “chill” in his bible.
‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ Silas tells me.
‘Silas, we’ve done nothing but take you seriously recently. We’ve worried ourselves sick, we’ve thought of little else, but —’
‘Really? Have you really?’ Silas looks pleased.
‘Yes. Really. But now you’re on the mend, and of course we’re all delighted, and we’ll do anything for you within reason. But we’ve got other things to think of as well.’
‘Yes. I see what you mean.’ Silas looks chastened, and I fear I may have overdone it.
‘But we don’t mind. Of course we don’t. We all love you, and we still worry about you,’ I assure him, anxious not to give the wrong impression. ‘You’re our priority at the moment —’
‘Oh good. Well then, about this rash —’
‘Silas, that’s not a rash! Trust me. I know about rashes. I used to be allergic to all sorts of things as a child. You could say I’m something of an expert on rashes. And you haven’t got a rash.’
‘It’s still very itchy.’
‘It’s probably dry. All that time in hospital with that central heating. It’s probably dried your skin out. And no —’ as Silas reaches for his book again — ‘you don’t need to look up dry skin. I’ll give you some baby lotion. I use it myself. It’s quite harmless, and very soothing.’
‘Then could you —’
‘Yes. I’ll put it on for you.’
Half-an-hour later, Silas has been anointed and reassured, and is mercifully asleep. I know he should be up and about — we’ve been told he needs to keep moving, and much of the time he’s only too happy to oblige — but it’s such a relief to have him out of the way, that I leave him. He’s got the rest of the day to potter round the house, and for the time being, we can get on with our chores.
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